


Cracks

by orphan_account



Series: I Promise You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Choking, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8907385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Harry keeps setting John up with blind dates in the hope that he might find "The One". John isn't so sure there's anyone out there who's meant for him; until he meets Paul. Paul seems like a dream come true at first, but things start getting messy very quickly, and when Sherlock realizes what's going on, it's up to him to try and get John out of Paul's reach. However, rescuing John from Paul becomes more difficult when Sherlock finds out exactly who Paul is. The detective must risk everything to save the army doctor's life, while also attempting to sort out his romantic feelings towards his friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I orphaned this because I'm not a fan of the writing style I used to have. However, I couldn't bear to delete it, because even badly written hurt-comfort is still worthy of being read by those of us who love a good sob story. Part Two is titled Fissures, and is also here on the orphan account.

John Watson was not a fool.

Yes, he did foolish things sometimes. He became a soldier in spite of his childhood asthma. He cut ties with his sister when he most needed financial assistance. He regularly followed a sociopathic maniac around London hunting serial killers.

However, on the list of idiotic things he had done or was doing, going out on the blind dates that Harry regularly set him up with was probably one of the top ten.

After John and Mary had divorced, Harry had taken it upon herself to find John his new happily-ever-after. She was convinced that, somewhere in London, there lay the perfect woman—or man, in tonight’s case, as Harry was one of the only people in the world who knew about John’s closeted bisexuality—who would make all of John’s dreams come true.

John was convinced that he was forever alone, but Harry never seemed to get the message.

He fussed with his tie, looking in the mirror to be sure it was straight. Tonight was a Friday; no work tomorrow, and as Sherlock was out of town, John could have the weekend to relax from what he was sure would be a tense and, at best, awkward night. The man’s name was Paul, and he was a blonde construction worker who had a penchant for classic rock. John grudgingly appreciated his taste in music, but he still strongly believed he would enjoy a night in bed with a good book much more than a night dancing at a club with a stranger he didn’t care to get to know.

Half an hour later, John found himself pacing the floor of the loo in a club he couldn’t remember the name of. His date was late by ten minutes, and John was already counting the seconds until it became twenty so that he could have a legitimate reason to bow out. Poking his head out of the loo, his heart sank as he spotted Paul sitting at the table near the back they had agreed on.

John shut the door abruptly and turned to the mirror, gripping the sink with one hand and trying to tame the cowlick at the back of his head with the other. He could do this. One night of social interaction with someone he had no intention of continuing to associate with, and then he could go home and crawl into bed with a cup of tea and a Zane Grey novel.

……

“Johnny? Babe, you awake?”

John’s eyes flew open, as if an electric shock had coursed through him. “Wh-what?”

There was a man laying in the bed next to him. No, not just a man; Paul. He smiled at John, eyes soft in the morning light from the window. “You slept soundly. Barely heard a peep out of you after you fell asleep.”

John sat up so quickly his back cracked horrendously. He groaned, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “Not to be rude, but did we…?”

Paul grinned. “Oh, did we. Four times. You have an incredible refractory period.”

John let out a sharp breath. “Right.” He stood, stretching and realizing quite suddenly that he was naked. He grabbed a robe from where it had been tossed haphazardly on his desk chair after last night’s pre-date shower and wrapped it around his body self-consciously.

Paul laid languidly in John’s bed, completely unaware of his total nudity, a smirk playing across his face. “No need to dress on my account. I’ve seen it all already.”

John blushed bright red and turned abruptly, almost running into the wall. He stepped out the door, mumbling about a shower.

“I’ll be right here, then!” Paul called. He watched as John exited the room, eyes narrowed like a hawk stalking its prey.

In the bathroom, John stared into the mirror at his stubbly face, frowning. He had obviously hit it off with Paul, to bring him home after just one date. And, from the sound of things, the sex had been fairly good, if the bruises on his body and the pleasant soreness emanating from certain areas were anything to go by.

So why didn’t he remember any of it?

……

 Sherlock knew the minute he stepped into the flat.

_Two pairs of shoes by the door, chair cushions in disarray, ripped condom wrapper on the floor…_

He made a face and stepped into the kitchen, removing his gloves. He’d hoped that, by returning early from the absolutely pointless conference Mycroft had wanted him to attend this weekend, he might be able to spend some time with John outside of work. He and John had been teetering on the brink of…something, over the last few weeks. Desirous glances, prolonged touching, and painfully obvious pining had led them to the brink of what Sherlock thought might be something resembling a romantic attachment, the likes of which the detective had not had since he had foolishly fallen for his college friend Victor.

However, obviously John had found someone he liked far better, judging by the empty lube bottle abandoned on the kitchen table. Sherlock made a mental note to sanitize the table before beginning any experiments.

As Sherlock hung his coat on the hook by the door, he heard uneven footsteps coming from John’s room.

“John?” he called out warily, “I’m back early, are you…decent?”

John stumbled into the room, wearing a jumper with pajama pants and a pronounced limp that gave away what Sherlock already knew about the man’s sexual proclivities. However, John didn’t look like someone who had enjoyed a rousing night of tumbling in the bedroom. His face was pale save for the dark bags under his eyes. His neck was lined with hickeys that looked too deep and ragged to have been pleasurable for anyone but an extreme masochist, and that disappeared under the collar of his jumper. His face seemed guarded, but under the mask Sherlock could see confusion and worry.

“John?” he said again, softer this time. “Are you quite all right?”

“I…” John trailed off. His eyes seemed unfocused as they traveled around the flat. He then shook his head and looked back at Sherlock. “I thought you were gone for the weekend.”

Sherlock turned away so that John wouldn’t see the hurt that he couldn’t keep off his features. “A pointless venture. Mycroft should know better than to send me on wild goose chases.”

There was a suspicious pause, as though John was having difficulty understanding Sherlock’s words. Finally, John blinked twice. “Right. Yeah, okay. Well, I…look, I didn’t think you would be back, so I…um. I guess I had someone over and-”

“You guess?” Sherlock turned, features sharp. “John, it’s entirely your prerogative who you sleep with, though in the future I would appreciate it if you kept your sexual activities in your own bedroom, rather than all over our shared flat.”

The words came out as a slap, and John visibly flinched. “I…look, I’m sorry, I’m still trying to figure out-never mind. I’ll just…”

John turned and limped back up the stairs, shutting his door quietly behind him.

Sherlock sighed heavily and slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. He knew that he had been far too harsh on John; but, something was wrong, and he couldn’t decipher what it was. Being unable to deduce things bothered Sherlock, and, piled onto his frustration over John’s choice to ignore the feelings between them, he wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to do.

Standing, Sherlock pulled his coat on again. He didn’t know if John’s friend was still here, and he really didn’t want to meet him if he was. He would go to Tesco and buy milk and John’s favorite tea. Maybe that would help John forgive him for speaking so harshly.


	2. Chapter 2

Paul stopped at the door. “I’ll see you again, right? This wasn’t just a one-off, I hope.”

John smiled awkwardly. “Well, ah-“

“Because I think we really hit it off, Johnny. I really like you, and I’d like to get to know you better. What do you say to lunch on Tuesday?” Paul said, voice taking on almost a desperate quality. “I don’t get out much, to be honest. No one seems to want to hang around with me much.”

John paused, but, seeing the look of hope on Paul’s face, relented. “Yes, okay. Lunch on Tuesday. Sounds great.”

Paul gave him a winning smile. “Excellent. See you then!” He gave John’s cheek a gentle kiss and turned, taking the stairs two at a time and whistling happily.

John touched his cheek with his fingertips where Paul had kissed him and felt the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. Yes, Paul was a little odd. The circumstances of their night together weren’t quite clear. But, Paul seemed like a nice guy. John figured it couldn’t hurt to give him a try.

After all, what could go wrong?

SIX MONTHS LATER          

“Is this Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock frowned. “Indeed. How did you acquire this number? It’s a private line.”

The woman on the phone sounded nervous. “Yes, sir, I’m very sorry, but you are listed as the emergency contact on one…John Watson’s medical paperwork?”

Sherlock stiffened. “I suppose I am.” He hadn’t seen John in five long months, not since he had moved in with Paul. Sherlock had advised against the relationship, and not simply because of his own romantic feelings towards the army doctor. He had met Paul twice and intensely disliked the way the man treated John.

The first time, Paul had come back with John after their second date of coffee at a nearby café. The two had been snogging quite heatedly on the stairs, with Sherlock lurking behind the kitchen door and listening for any signs of trouble. Paul had suddenly pulled away and, through the peephole, Sherlock could see a sneaky grin crossing his face.

“What say we take this to the bedroom, Johnny?”

John had squirmed uncomfortably, the first sign to Sherlock that something wasn’t right. “Paul, I have work in an hour, and I’m a bit…sore. From Friday, I mean.”

Paul sighed, irritation evident in his voice. “John, you’re a man. You could have sex every day if you wanted to.” He smiled again, the same uncomfortably bright smile that seemed to have danger lurking underneath. “Just fifteen minutes. I bet I can do it in fifteen minutes. What do you think?”

John seemed to struggle with himself for a few seconds, then let out a breath and nodded. “Alright, yeah, fifteen minutes.”

The two had then adjourned to John’s bedroom as Sherlock watched from the shadowy darkness of the kitchen, eyes narrowed at Paul’s hand groping John’s bum on the way up.

The second time had been even worse; it was the day John told him he would be moving in with Paul after just one month of dating the man. John had been apologetic about moving out on such short notice, of course.

“It’s not like we’ll never see each other, Sherlock!” John had said, laughing hollowly at Sherlock’s stunned face. “It’ll be like when Mary and I-well, anyways, the point is, I’m always here if you need me, and so is Paul.”

Sherlock hadn’t been able to think of any words at the time, too busy running his mind over every single detail of John, trying to deduce what was happening. “You…You’re leaving. The flat. For good, this time.”

John sighed. “Yes. Paul loves me, and he wants me to move in with him. He’s got a nice little place; not far from the Yates clinic, actually.”

Sherlock stopped. “The Yates clinic? I thought you worked at that silly office with that woman you used to date. What was her name? Saria?”

“Sarah. And yeah, but Paul told me about the Yates clinic, they had an opening for a doctor with experience in the armed forces to work with former soldier patients.” John smiled, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Paul knows the director of the program, he recommended me. Quite an honor to be chosen, really.”

“But you-” Sherlock paused, then continued, wracking his brain to try and understand what was happening. He took a deep breath and composed himself. “I’ll be sorry to see you go, John. You were-that is to say, you have been…”

“Sherlock, it’s okay,” John said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t need to say it. I know.”

John had shared a few more, mundane details after that, but nothing Sherlock had deemed important to what he was now referring as The Paul Case. Instead, he had taken the time to observe the changes in John’s features. John’s face looked thinner, with near-permanent grey circles under his eyes. Sherlock could see edges of what seemed to be hickeys under the collar of his shirt. The limp from his first bout of lovemaking with Paul had disappeared over the last month, but his hands seemed to shake slightly.

Sherlock couldn’t yet understand what all these details meant, but he knew that something wasn’t right.

“Mr. Holmes? Are you still there?”

Sherlock gave his head a little shake, exiting the reminiscence in his mind palace, and answered, voice steady. “Yes. Sorry. Continue.”

The woman sighed. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson is currently here in the A&E. As his emergency contact, we are required to notify you. Are you next of kin, spouse…?”

Sherlock cleared his throat, shock coursing through him. “Ah…spouse. Why is Jo-Dr. Watson in A&E?”

She paused, then continued, voice a little colder. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give you a diagnosis over the phone, but-”

Sherlock cut her off, voice sharp. “I will arrive in ten minutes and fifty-six seconds. Be prepared to tell me everything.”

Sherlock ended the call and yanked his coat on, already running down the stairs.

Ten minutes and fifty-seven seconds later, Sherlock strode up to the front desk, a dark look on his face.

“Sherlock Holmes, here to see John Watson.”

The woman at the desk gave him a suspicious glance. “Relation?”

“Spouse.” The lie rolled easily off of Sherlock’s tongue.

“Room 313,” she said, not looking up from her paperwork. She mumbled something under breath, and Sherlock turned sharply.

“If you’re going to speak rudely to me, I would appreciate it if you made your complaint audible. Not that I care what you think of me.” He turned again and swept away down the hall towards room 313 and John.


	3. Chapter 3

The room was quiet as Sherlock entered, the lights dim. A figure was curled up on a hospital bed, back to the door, shaking slightly.

_John._

Sherlock approached the bed quietly and said in a soft voice, “John?”

John did not move, though his twitch upon hearing Sherlock’s voice gave away his awakened state.

Sherlock sat in the cushioned chair next to John’s bed, maintaining his gentle tone. “Care to explain why I’m your emergency contact rather than your partner?”

John shifted, letting out a little whimper, but did not reply.

“John. I know things are not right.” Sherlock stared at his friend’s shaking shoulders, feeling a deep sadness well up inside him. “But, I cannot help you unless you tell me what is wrong. In this instance, I don’t believe it would be wise to deduce the problem.”

“They shouldn’t have called you.”

Shock flooded through Sherlock at the hoarseness of John’s voice. “I’m your emergency contact. They were required to inform me of your…condition.”

John curled up into a tighter ball. “Paul will be here soon. You should leave.”

“Not until you tell me exactly why I was called here tonight.” Sherlock watched John’s shoulders tense and continued. “Despite what you might think of me, I…I care deeply about you, John. I know that you aren’t alright, and I want to help you.”

There was a loud knock at the door. John flinched, his hand reflexively clenching into a fist. Sherlock stiffened as Paul poked his head around the door, surprise flashing across his features as he saw Sherlock. However, he hastened towards John’s bed as if he hadn’t even seen the detective.

“Oh, Johnny! Baby, I was so worried, I got here as fast as I could!” Paul grabbed John’s hand, clenching it to his chest almost possessively, a look of deep concern on his face. “I would have been here sooner, but I had a spot of trouble at the front desk. Seems I’m not registered as your emergency contact. We’ll fix that as soon as you feel up to it, right?”

John nodded, saying nothing, still curled up and facing the wall.

Paul turned to Sherlock. “Oh, hello again, Sherrick. What are you doing here?”

“Sherlock. I was just…” Sherlock trailed off, looking at John’s shadowed figure, lit only by the dim overhead lights. He sighed. “I was just leaving.”

“Mmm. You can show yourself out, I’ll stay here and make sure Johnny’s okay.” Paul said, not looking up from caressing John’s shoulder.

“Indeed…” Sherlock said curiously. Like a puzzle, all the details of the past few months were starting to come together. However, he was still missing a few crucial pieces. He put on his most genial smile and turned to Paul.

“Paul, I wonder…may I have your full name? I was mistakenly identified as John’s emergency contact today, and I’m sure John would appreciate an immediate rectification of that mistake.” Sherlock smiled, attempting to radiate innocence.

Paul paused, staring intently at Sherlock’s face, then smiled brilliantly. “You’re a real pal, Shellick. It’s Paul Allerson.”

Sherlock gave the man an almost-feral smile. “Thank you, Mr. Allerson.” He exited, coat swishing behind him, and shut the door with a quiet click.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, quickly dialing a number that only two people in the world had access to.

“Hello, brother dear. I have a favor to ask.”

…….

Paul turned to John, the smile replaced with an angry smile. “Sit up. Now.”

John curled in on himself even further. “Paul, I-”

A resounding smack echoed throughout the room. “I said, sit. Up. Now.”

John struggled into an upright position, crying out as the action pulled on the stitches in his side. The doctor looked terrible. He had a deep black eye, a bruise on the opposite cheek, and his lip was split in two places and stitched in one. Purple bruises ringed his neck and disappeared under the collar of his hospital-issued sleep shirt. His eyes darted around, bloodshot and nervous. His hands shook as he attempted to get up and fell back onto the bed, wincing.

Paul smacked him again, drawing more color onto his already deeply bruised cheek. “It’s not that bad, you crybaby. You got worse in Afghanistan. Now get out of bed and put on some actual clothes, we’re leaving.” He walked over to the sink, grabbing the three medication bottles sitting there. He opened them and poured the pills into the trash.

John’s tired eyes followed the action as he struggled to pull his trousers over his legs, opening wider in shock at Paul’s disposal of the meds. “Paul! My antibiotics!” He stood with difficulty and limped towards the trash can, hands extending to recover the medication.

Paul shoved him backwards towards the bed, John falling to the floor under his harsh touch with a hoarse cry. “You don’t need pills! Drugs are for the weak.” The man knelt, eyes shining with an insane pride. “And you’re not weak, baby, oh no. Not my Johnny, not my strong, brave man. You’ll get better without drugs, and you won’t disappoint me again like you did by coming here.”

John shrank down until he seemed to be half his normal size and mumbled something.

Paul leaned in, hand clenching John’s wrist far too tight. “What was that, dearest?”

“I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

John yelped as Paul’s hand smacked him hard upside his head. He leaned in close, eyes blazing with anger. “Don’t you ever say that again. You’re mine now, Johnny, remember?”

Paul grabbed his coat from where it lay on the chair and pulled out a small needle and a vial of greenish liquid. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. I can see you’re going to need a little help getting home today.”

John’s face crumpled, his eyes frantic. “No, no, nononononono, please, Paul-”

Paul stuck the needle in the side of John’s neck, and the doctor slumped, eyes going hazy.

Paul smiled, breathing hard with adrenaline. “There. There we go, baby, all better. Paul will take care of you, lovely, don’t you worry.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a short rape scene in this, though it's not overly graphic. I will put an asterisk before the squicky bits start, and another where they end, so that you can skip right over it. You shouldn't miss too much by doing so. Please don't read if it will be problematic for you! And, just in case you choose to read and decide after you're a bit not good, the number for the National Sexual Assault Hotline is 1-800-656-4673. Self-care is important, loves. Keep being awesome :)

Sherlock stopped at the front desk of the A&E, staring sharply at the woman who had directed him to John’s room. “You insulted me under your breath earlier. Why?”

The woman looked up in shock, but upon seeing Sherlock’s face, her eyes narrowed. “I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”

Sherlock looked around and leaned in, speaking in a low voice. “I’m not John Watson’s spouse. I lied. That man currently in the room, Paul Allerson, is his partner, but something isn’t right and…I don’t know what it is. Why don’t I know what it is?” Sherlock snarled, yanking at his black curls. He sighed and shook his head. “The failures of my mind aren’t the problem at hand. When you believed me to be John’s spouse, you insulted me. Why? It’s important, it must be.”

The woman leaned forward, looking to the left and right of the desk, then whispered. “Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this, Mr…”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes, it’s entirely unprofessional of me to be telling you anything regarding John’s injuries, but…” she hesitated, biting her lip.

Sherlock stared at her, unwavering. “Continue. I assure you, nothing leaves this desk.”

She sighed, warring with herself, but finally continued in a low voice. “Dr. Watson’s injuries are all indicative of long-term spousal abuse. Black eyes, broken ribs, lacerations to the lower abdomen, among other bumps and bruises that don’t just come from falling down the stairs at night. The biggest was a knife wound to the abdomen, not deep, but still dangerous if not stitched, which I’m assuming was the reason he finally came in. There’re other injuries too; older ones, that hadn’t healed properly.” She scowled, voice taking on an angry quality. “It wasn’t professional of me to insult you, I’ll admit, but my sister was in an abusive relationship for years and that kind of scum is the lowest thing a human can be, in my opinion.”

Sherlock frowned. “Is there anything that can be done by the hospital staff?” His eyes narrowed. “Paul’s behavior is deeply suspicious, and if you noticed, surely the medical professionals will, as well.”

The nurse sighed. “Well, naturally, one of the hospital psychologists will want to speak with John, and we recently hired a domestic violence support staff, so one of them will likely also talk to him. As for Paul…we can’t do anything without John’s okay.” She looked back at the woman (her boss, Sherlock deduced) behind them and, seeing her engaged in conversation with another employee, leaned forward even further. “Mr. Holmes, his injuries…again, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but…if John were to tell the hospital staff outright that his wounds were caused by Paul’s abuse, we could do quite a bit to keep him safe from Paul, and to provide evidence, if John wished to press charges. But…” the woman paused, unsure.

Sherlock prompted her to continue. “But?”

The woman looked down. “Dr. Watson insists that the injuries weren’t caused by Paul. He has a long list of reasons why he’s so beaten up.”

Sherlock frowned. “And this is the first time he’s been in the hospital for these injuries?”

She nodded. “There was a short visit here-the A&E-but no actual hospital stay, just a quick in-and-out for…small lacerations to the right arm and face, suspected cause; glass.”

He sighed, speaking almost to himself. “None of this makes sense. Why would John not…” he broke off. “Well. This has been most…informative. Thank you, miss.”

She nodded, then startled. “Oh…here.” She ripped off a piece of paper and scribbled something onto it, then handed it to Sherlock. “My name and personal number. I can’t do any more for you here; in fact, I’ve rather overdone it by telling you about John’s injuries and status. But…if you need anything outside of work, I’m here.” She smiled softly. “I’ve been there before. It’s really difficult when someone you love is in a situation like this, and I’ll help you any way I can.”

Sherlock paused, mouth slightly open, then shut it with a snap and nodded, eyes determined. “Thank you.” Sherlock paused as he took the scrap of paper from her, then lowered his voice. “And I…my deepest apologies about your sister.”

He turned and stepped away, but turned back when he heard the desk clerk call out to him.

“Mr. Holmes?”

He looked at her. Her expression was stony, but with an underlying fire.

“Don’t let the bastard get away. Sir.”

Sherlock gave a little jerk of his head and, with a flash of his coat, walked away from the A&E desk and out the double doors of the hospital. He needed to pay a visit to his friendly neighborhood Detective Inspector.

……

A few hours later, Paul pulled a fake grey wig off of his head, grinning at the prone figure lying on the bed next to him.

“That was surprisingly simple, Johnny! I didn’t think that would work, but there you have it.” He shook his head, amused. “Humans. Such a stupid species, overall. All it took was a phony identification card and a cheap disguise to fool those idiots at the hospital.”

John babbled incoherently, drool sliding from his lips to the bedspread beneath him.

Paul smiled sympathetically. “I know, I know. IOX-23 isn’t very fun to have in your system, but you’ll get used to it eventually. This is, what, the eighth time I’ve used it on you?” He smiled proudly. “My Johnny has such good resistance to drug addiction, but you’ll cave eventually. They all have.”

He stood and walked over to the window, peeking through the blinds to the empty street below. “Looks like we’ll be having a quiet night in again. Nobody coming to call.” He grinned. “What should we do, Johnny?”

John mumbled nonsensical words, shifting against the bedspread. Paul looked down the bed at John’s crotch and grinned.

“Ah, yes. Another pleasant side effect of IOX-23.” He giggled, staring at John’s tented trousers. “You’re insatiable, Johnny!”

Paul’s demeanor suddenly changed. “You’re lucky to have me, you know. Nobody else would put up with your shit.” He glared at John. “God knows why I do. You don’t deserve to have me. You’re so worthless, John.”

Suddenly, Paul grabbed John around the neck, squeezing until John was gasping for breath. “Repeat it. ‘I’m worthless’. Say it.” When John did not respond, Paul squeezed harder as John wheezed under him. “Say it. NOW!”

John choked out, voice fuzzy with the drugs coursing through his system, “W-worthless…”

Paul squeezed harder as John’s face began to turn blue. “AGAIN!”

Tears began to creep down the sides of John’s face as he mumbled, “Worthl-less. W-w-worthless!”

Finally, Paul let go just as John’s eyes began to roll back in his head. The army doctor gasped, coughing and choking violently, hands scrabbling at his throat as if trying to remove something wrapped around it.

Paul sat back, watching, satisfaction on his face. “That’s right. You’re worthless. I don’t even know why I keep you around, besides the nice piece of ass you’ve got.”

He laid beside John for a few minutes, watching him wheeze and cough, struggling against the linens under him. Finally, Paul sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll keep you around. For your own good. Keep you off the streets, you cheap whore. But you’re going to have to pay for it. After all, I’m doing this to help you, so I’ll need payment.”

*

Paul sat up and kneeled in front of John’s face, unzipping his trousers, a sick smile on his face. John turned his face away, still wheezing slightly.

Paul yanked his face back towards him and smacked his cheek hard. “Hey! Don’t forget, worthless, I’m the only reason you’re not alone. Without me, you’d have stayed with your freaky flatmate forever.”

Anger appeared on John’s features, but Paul remained oblivious as he pulled himself out of his pants. “Now, open your mouth, faggot.”

John opened his mouth, choking slightly as Paul shoved himself in, thrusting in and out. As soon as Paul attempted to deep-throat John, he bit down hard.

*

Paul shouted. “Son of a bitch!” He punched John hard, the sound of skin on skin resounding throughout the room. John fell back onto the bed, coughing, blood splattering the duvet from his mouth. The doctor groaned, eyes unfocused from both the blow and the drugs.

Paul growled angrily. “That’s it. I’ve had it with your ungrateful, worthless, piece of shit ass.” He grabbed John’s wrists and pulled him up off of the bed to a standing position. John hunched over, jumper stained with red from the stitches that had been ripped on his stomach. Paul shoved him towards the stairs, pushing him down two flights to the dark, damp basement. He pushed him onto the cement floor, glaring angrily.

“I’ll see you in twenty-four hours. If, by then, you’re ready to give me a proper blowjob and be a good boyfriend, I’ll give you food and water, and I’ll let you treat those injuries with the first aid kit. If not…” Paul snarled, eyes gleaming with a feral hunger. “You can rot for all I care.”

The door slammed shut, a key turned in the lock, and John was alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'll update probably once a week or so, depending on how much writing I get done.  
> Also Me: *Updates once a day, sometimes twice*  
> I'm on break and visiting home, which means I can either write, or have conversations with the racist and homophobic next door neighbor. Hmm. Tough choice.  
> Thanks for all your lovely comments! Hearing discussion of my work actually really helps me decide how to shape this story and where to go next with it. :)

“Your flat is a mess.”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his position on the couch, laptop resting on the coffee table amid piles of empty takeout containers and old experiments. “Good morning, Lestrade. Is that Mycroft’s cologne I smell?”

Greg shrugged, eyes giving away his irritation. “Dunno what you mean. Git.” He walked over and sat down in John’s old chair, mumbling under his breath.

Sherlock looked up sharply. “Don’t.”

Greg frowned. “Don’t-oh. Sorry, Sherlock.” He stood, sympathy spreading across his face, and stepped across a pile of old newspapers, seating himself in Sherlock’s chair instead.

Sherlock’s eyes lingered on John’s chair for only a moment, then returned to his laptop. “Any news?”

The inspector sighed, smacking the arm of the chair in frustration. “Not a thing. I’ve been over and over it, but legally, there’s nothing we can do unless John or Paul admit to the abuse, or we catch them in the act.”

Sherlock cursed. “Is Mycroft following you over here to maintain the idea that the two of you are independent, unassociated adults who are coincidentally always in the same place when I call you?”

“Hello, brother dear.”

Sherlock turned to the door, putting on an obviously fake simpering smile. “Hello, Mycroft! It appears you’ve lost weight. Must be Lestrade’s excellent bedroom workout routine.”

Greg choked on air as Mycroft stared Sherlock down. “Indeed.” He walked over to John’s chair, but paused when he saw the look on Sherlock’s face and instead stepped gingerly over a potted plant to the desk, removing a box of rat tails and several ice cube trays from one of the chairs before sitting down.

“If you two are quite finished discussing Gregory and I’s sexual affairs, I have news regarding Paul Allerson.”

Sherlock sat up, closing his laptop and staring intently at Mycroft. “Who is he?”

Mycroft shifted. “You won’t like it, Sherlock.”

“Tell me.”

The government man sighed. “Mr. Allerson is an alibi. Paul Allerson is actually Tristan Mark. Mark was an American businessman, very important in the stock market; that is, until his house was raided by police looking for illegal imports who three women and a man locked in his basement.”

Greg let out a breath. “Yikes.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft shifted in his chair, hanging his umbrella on the back of it. “Mark had been a member of the American underground slave trade for many years. Those people were not the first he had taken. He lost his job, of course, and he was brought before the law for the…infractions he committed against the enslaved people.”

“But?” Sherlock said, unimpressed by Mycroft’s dramatic pause. Greg leaned forward, enthralled. Mycroft stared down his nose at Sherlock imperiously, then continued.

“Just before his first trial, he disappeared. It’s not uncommon in cases involving the slave trade. The other members of the trade don’t want their secrets discussed in the court of law. They have too many secrets to risk such exposure. Usually, captured businesspersons are…disposed of.”

“But he wasn’t, then.” Greg said, confusion on his face. “Did he escape?”

“I am unsure how, but Mark remained alive,” Mycroft said disparagingly. “He somehow gathered enough funds to escape to England, undoubtedly through old contacts. From what I’ve heard of Mark’s story, he was in far too deep. He was in contact with our old friend James Moriarty at one point, though I didn’t connect Mark with Allerson when I first learned of the meeting.”

Sherlock looked up sharply. “He wasn’t just an agent of the trade, then; he would have to be important, even to simply know of Moriarty’s existence.”

“Quite.” Mycroft said primly.

“Alright, so we know who this bloke is, we know what we’re dealing with…what’s our next move?” Greg said, leaning forward intently.

Sherlock and Mycroft stared at him.

Greg frowned. “What?”

“Dearest, we are attempting to rescue John from a man who has limited but no less dangerous contacts, a man who escaped death by an intricate underground operation, a man who has previously been in contact with James Moriarty himself,” Mycroft said gently. “We need to tread carefully.”

Sherlock growled angrily. “If I could just figure out where these contacts are, I could make so much more progress!”

Mycroft smiled patronizingly. “Really, Sherlock. Being my brother does have some benefits, occasionally.” He laid a folder on the table gingerly. “This lists Allerson’s three remaining contacts, all of whom live here in the UK, and all of whom are just as close to being out of resources as Allerson is himself. They are dangerous, but can be neutralized, if need be.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock said, eyes glowing. He stood and turned to the wall, clearing off old sticky notes in preparation for a new string map. “Do you have an address?”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. “No.”

Sherlock paused, then turned, curiosity written on his face. “No?”

Mycroft looked awkwardly out the window, face turning slightly reddish. “No.”

A smirk slid onto Sherlock’s face. “You’re telling me that the British Government, in charge of an entire nation of people and the security of those people, who can track down and compile a folder of information on underground contacts, cannot find the address of one man.”

“It isn’t that I can’t find it, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped irritably. “The address listed for Paul Allerson doesn’t exist. I sent Anthea for a drive-by earlier, and the location is an abandoned factory warehouse. There’s no one there, I assure you.”

Sherlock sighed. “Ah. I suppose it would be foolish to hope a criminal would list his correct address on paperwork for his alibi personality.”

“Look, Sherlock,” Greg said, leaning forward, face intent, “don’t give up hope. I’ll do whatever I can to help you bring John home.” He leaned back, a grim expression on his face. “I’m not the British government, but I’ve got something he doesn’t; Donovan.”

Sherlock made a disgusted face. “Donovan? Mycroft, may I borrow your umbrella to hit Lestrade over the head so that he understands what word just exited his mouth?”

“No, seriously!” Greg said. “Donovan’s the biggest gossip in my department. The best way to find things out is to ask her. If anyone can get Allerson’s address without raising suspicion, it’s her.”

Sherlock sighed, warring with himself, then finally nodded, looking repulsed. “I dislike relying on others for such important tasks, much less Donovan, but…if you think she truly can help, then…okay. Fine.” Sherlock groaned quietly, irritation on his features as he opened his laptop again and began typing madly.

Greg grinned and stood. “Alright then. Give me a couple hours. I’ll be back with the address before you know it.”

He strode out as Sherlock watched, eyes wide with shock. Once Greg was gone, the detective scoffed. “He’s mad.”

Mycroft twirled his umbrella between his fingers. “Have faith, little brother. John is and has always been yours, but he is also one of Gregory’s closest friends, and it wears on the inspector to know that he is suffering.”

Sherlock leaned back, eyes narrowed. “Mine? John has never been mine.”

“On the contrary, Sherlock.” Mycroft stood and walked over to the mirror over the mantle, straightening his tie. He stopped quite suddenly, then turned, a smile quirking his pale lips. “You really cannot see it, can you? Oh, Sherlock. You’re so naïve, for a detective.”

Sherlock looked at the floor, voice quiet. “It isn’t that I cannot see it. Of course I see it, Mycroft, I see everything. But I was unable to act on it before…” he trailed off, eyes traveling from the floor to John’s empty chair.

Mycroft stood solemnly in the middle of the room, eyes sympathetic. After several moments of silence, he looked at his watch and walked quietly towards the door. “I must be off. People to see, and Anthea will undoubtedly be wondering what became of me.” He hesitated in the doorway. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock looked up. In the light, his eyes were rimmed with red and filled with deep pain, his emotional mask cast away and his face laid bare for his older brother.

“We will find John. I promise.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also has a short rape scene in it. I have done the same thing as last time; squicky sections are marked off with asterisks, and you shouldn't miss much by skipping over it.

_“You know how I feel about you. You’ve always known, John.”_

_John looked up at Sherlock, smiling happily, his arms wrapping around the detective’s thin frame as Sherlock peppered his cheeks and forehead with kisses._

_“You are the best thing in my life, darling. You’re worthy.”_

_Time seemed to stand still for a moment as Sherlock’s last word echoed around John’s head. When John looked up again, it was Paul sneering down at him, his hands squeezing John’s wrists tight._

_“You’re worthless. Why would anyone want you? An old, fat army doctor with a dodgy shoulder and a crush on a man who wouldn’t even look twice at you.”_

_“Worthless.”_

John awoke and shot up from the floor, gasping. He scrambled back against the cement walls of the basement, his abdomen on fire with the infection that was coursing through him from his torn stitches. He rubbed a shaking hand over his eyes, trying to clear the images of Paul out of his head.

John stood, bracing himself against the wall, legs shaky. The room was dark, with no windows and no way to tell how much time had passed. He knew it was dangerous to hyperventilate when he was this weak, but he couldn’t help it. Scenes of abuse flashed through his head, intermingled with memories of his childhood and the war. A whimper worked its way out of John’s throat as he scratched at his wrist with uneven, torn fingernails.

Hours passed. John paced the room, knowing that sleeping again with the infection in the wound on his side could be fatal. He did everything he could to keep his brain active. The drugs had faded, which meant that at least ten hours had passed since Paul had shut him in here, out of the twelve it usually took for IOX-23 to wear off.

John had been trying his best to figure out what exactly IOX-23 was. He knew that Paul had gone to university in America to study chemistry under a foreign exchange fellowship, but had recently fallen on hard times and was working at a construction site. It was entirely possible that Paul had mixed the drug himself, which was even more concerning considering some of the side effects.

The first time Paul had used IOX-23 on him, it had been a month and a half into their relationship. John had just arrived home from a long, exhausting day at his new clinic job, and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for at least ten hours. However, Paul had been waiting at the door, practically humping the coat rack in his state of excitement. John had turned him down, of course, and had gone to take a relaxing bath. It was then that Paul had administered the drug, taking advantage of John’s exhausted state. John didn’t remember much after that—his time while drugged was always fuzzy in his mind—but there had been plenty of evidence left when he awoke to suggest what had occurred, if the bruises all over his body and the handcuffs on the bedposts could say anything.

After awakening from his twelve hours under the influence, John had been unbelievably angry at Paul for drugging him without his consent and taking advantage of him. However, Paul had simply shrugged and said, “You had fun. Besides, who’s going to believe you? Me, the beanpole, overpower you, the chubmaster?”

John had kept his mouth shut after that, not sure what to say. Paul had a point; while shorter than his blond boyfriend, the army doctor was huskier. Fatter, the little voice in his mind supplied. John growled and curled his hands into fists, unconsciously sucking in his stomach at the same time.

He slid down the wall to sit on the floor after several minutes of pacing. John wasn’t sure when he started believing all the drivel Paul spouted about him. It wasn’t like him to self-deprecate. John believed in being honest; it was true that he had some things that were simply not his forte, but he was good at some things, and he didn’t believe in being overly modest about the things he could do. However, somewhere along in his relationship with Paul, the man had planted a doubt in John’s head that got louder and louder with each passing day.

_You’re worthless._

…….

Hours later, the door to the basement creaked open and Paul stepped in. John was unconscious on the floor, breathing shallowly and shivering with both cold and infection. Paul snorted irritably and threw a bucket of cold water over his shaking figure. John let out a terrified scream as he awoke abruptly and scrabbled backwards to the far wall of his makeshift prison.

“Please. What a wuss.” Paul rolled his eyes and threw the canvas bag he was carrying onto the floor. Out spilled a bruised apple, a small bottle of water, and a cheap first aid kit. “Clean yourself up, then come up to the bedroom. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

John nodded quietly, frame still shaking with residual terror and chilled from the icy water. Paul exiting, slamming the door behind him, though John noted the lack of a key turning in the lock. He dragged himself forward, dripping water onto the floor, wincing as pain coursed through him, and grabbed the items Paul had abandoned on the floor. Biting hungrily into the apple, he opened the first aid kit to find the most basic of items. He sighed, knowing none of the items he saw would help the infection in his side. He threw the apple core to the side, finishing it in under a minute, and drained the bottle of water, treating the smaller wounds that covered his body and doing what he could for the torn stitches on his side, which was inflamed and leaking a small amount of blood. He winced at the sight; if he was going to survive, that needed immediate treatment. He would have to somehow convince Paul to get him help.

After stopping by the bathroom to relieve himself (wincing at the bright yellow color of his urine that reminded him of the beginning stages of dehydration), John entered the upstairs bedroom and did a double take when he saw a man sitting in a chair near the bed, deep in discussion with Paul. He hesitated at the door, wary of the punishment he would inflict should he interrupt Paul at the wrong time.

However, Paul looked up and smiled warmly. “Johnny! Dearest, this is Doctor Keller. He’s an old friend of mine from way back in college. Arnold, this is my partner, John Watson.”

“It’s really a pleasure to meet you,” Dr. Keller said, leering at John as the army doctor did his best to smile charmingly, “I’ve heard so much about you from Paul here.”

“Dr. Keller was in town, and he agreed to stop by and help patch up your injuries from that little accident we had the other night,” Paul said knowingly, eyes flashing with malice, “I’ve told him how clumsy you can be. Falling down the stairs left and right, Johnny is.”

“Seems like it! John, why don’t you take off your clothes and lie on the bed?” Dr. Keller said kindly, though his eyes flickered briefly to John’s crotch. “I’ll just go and wash my hands…”

After Dr. Keller had headed into the bathroom, Paul turned to John, smiling. “You’ve been such a good boy for the last day, staying in the basement like you did, that I thought you deserved a little kind treatment. Arnold is the best of the best, but that means he’s ruddy expensive, too.” He sighed loudly, making a show of pulling out his wallet and opening it, showing off the empty inside. “I spent the last of my money on those hospital bills of yours from when you ran away after we had that little incident with the knife. How in the world am I going to pay him?”

Paul fell quiet, staring at John intently. John looked away, his partner’s gaze boring into his skull as he stripped off his shirt, leaving him in a pair of grey pants. “I could start working at the clinic again. When you made-I mean, asked me to quit so that I could look after the house last month, I told you our finances would go down the tubes.”

“Don’t talk back to me, you little bitch!” Paul said harshly, lashing out and kicking John’s calf, then sat back, a thoughtful look upon his face as he leered at John’s arse. “Well, I guess I’ll have to tell Dr. Keller we don’t need him after all. You’ll just have to deal with that infection yourself.”

“No!” John blurted out, then cursed himself. “I mean…Paul, please. I could die.”

“So?” Paul said, looking bored.

John looked away again, hand unconsciously ghosting over the wound on his side, smearing blood over the grayish skin of his abdomen.

Paul suddenly sat up, smiling broadly. “You know what I think? I have the perfect payment for Dr. Keller, after all.”

John stared at Paul, confused, then swallowed harshly when he realized what Paul was implying. Dr. Keller entered the room again, smiling. “Alright, let’s get this done! John, take off those pants and get on the bed.”

The army doctor shivered, resisting the urge to run from the room as he pushed his pants over his hips. His wound needed doctoring. He had to do this to survive.

An hour later, Dr. Keller exited to wash John’s blood from his hands as John lay on the bed, face stark white against the duvet. Keller, while actually a decent doctor, had all his supplies except for anesthesia. John was still shaking from the pain of having his wound re-stitched while awake. The doctor had also given John antibiotics for the infection, much to Paul’s disapproval. However, Keller had won out, and John silently cheered as he swallowed two pills dry.

John’s stomach sank as Dr. Keller walked back in. Paul smiled ferally. “Now, we need to pay the good doctor. Get on your knees.”

*

Dr. Keller grinned as he unzipped his pants, already hard. “Not a bad payment, Paul. Do you get your groceries delivered this way too?”

“Not yet, but I really should consider it. His gag reflex is practically nonexistent.” John’s face burned with shame as Keller thrust into his mouth with abandon, groaning. After a few minutes, Keller pulled out and shoved John away, turning to Paul.

“Well, that was excellent, though I have to admit, Paul…I’d hoped for more. I did just do an hour of work for free, after all.”

Paul nodded, sighing dramatically. “You’re entirely right, Arnold, and you’re a saint for helping that poor man. John, do you think you could give Arnold something else?” He grinned and glanced at Keller, a knowing look in his eyes. “Maybe you should ride him. That’s something he liked from his sluts back in college, if I remember correctly.”

John started to shake, eyes wide. “P-Paul…please, can’t we just keep going with the blowjob, or, or anything else, please…”

Paul stood and walked slowly over to John, smiling pleasantly. He then smacked him hard in the face. John’s head whipped sideways, a deep red mark appearing on his cheek. Paul leaned in and whispered. “You get on that bed and you fuck yourself for that man, or you’ll find yourself back in the basement for the next week, you little whore.”

Keller had laid down on the bed while Paul spoke, grinning and stroking himself. “Well?”

John felt his eyes water with unshed tears as he crawled over to the bed, hating himself for every inch he moved.

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Two Months Later**

“We’ve found him.”

Sherlock looked up in shock at Greg standing in the doorway to his flat, completely out of breath. He panted, repeating his glorious words. “We’ve found him, I’ve got the address.”

Sherlock leapt up and stepped over the now spotless coffee table, snatching the folder out of Greg’s hands, striding over to pace the clean floor by the fireplace. Greg looked around the flat in shock. “It’s…it’s clean.”

“I needed to do something. I very nearly-” Sherlock cut himself off, shaking his head sharply. “It’s not important.” There were deep circles around his dull eyes, normally so full of vigor.

Greg hesitated, then sat down on the couch. “Sherlock. There’s nothing wrong with being tempted, s’long as you don’t act on it.” He smiled sadly. “It’s been bloody tough lately for you, and I’m proud that you-”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, okay.” Greg ran a finger over the picture hanging above his head, whistling at the lack of any dust or dirt.

“756 Wallander Court.” Sherlock leapt over his chair to yank open the desk drawer and shuffle through it, finally pulling out a map of London. He scrambled back over the chair, squatting in it and spreading the map out on the seat below him, opening a pen with his teeth and tracing a route on the thin paper. He capped the pen and pulled out his phone, dialing a number Greg was very familiar with.

“What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?” Greg said, standing with a frown on his face. “That’s-”

“Shh.” Sherlock hissed. They waited on tenterhooks.

“He’s never answered before, why now?” Greg said, confused.

Sherlock smirked. “Because John Watson is not an unintelligent man.”

_“Sh-sherlock?”_

Sherlock sat up, all traces of smugness gone from his face. “John? Are you sure he’s gone?”

John sniffled. _“Y-yes.”_

“And all the cameras are disabled for the next fifteen minute loop?”

Greg heard a horrible hacking cough through the phone. _“Course. Learned from the best.”_

“John, we’re coming to get you, but I need to know when I can be sure to avoid any confrontation.”

_“You can’t.”_

Sherlock paused, frowning. “What?”

Another sniffle. _“You heard me.”_

Sherlock growled. “John, that’s absurd. You are being horribly mistreated and I can save you! I can make it stop!”

_“I’m not worth it.”_

Sherlock stopped cold, in shock. After a few moments, he said quietly, “John. I don’t know what that bastard has been filling your head with, but…you are the only thing I’ve been able to think about for the past eight months. I have been working day and night to figure out how to get to you and help you because I cannot function properly without you by my side.” He lowered his voice. “You are always worth it.”

 _“I’m not. I’m worthless.”_ John let out a wheezing cough.

Greg put his head in his hands, sadness coursing through him as Sherlock said urgently, “John, please. Just tell me what his work hours are, we don’t have much time. Please!”

 _“Sherlock, he’ll kill me. He’s going to know that I answered when you called. He always knows. He’ll kill me for it.”_ John’s voice shook, small sobs coming forth unbidden.

Sherlock’s voice was similarly shaky. “I can help you. Please. You’re running out of time. Please, John, let me help you.” A tear track glittered on the detective’s cheek in the low lighting. “Please. John, I love you.”

Greg looked up, shocked. Silence fell for a few moments, then John said quietly. _“Weekdays from 9 AM to 5 PM. He-he locks me up in the basement while he’s gone, so you’ll need your lock kit. He has c-cameras everywhere, too.”_

Sherlock let out a long breath. “Thank you, John. Be ready sometime in the next week.” He lowered his voice to a soothing tone. “I promise you, I will get you out of there.”

_“I can’t walk.”_

Sherlock stopped, not trusting his ears. “What?”

John’s voice began to shake again as he coughed violently. _“P-Paul…he did something to my legs. ‘Bout a month ago. Told him I was g-going to run away, and he-he didn’t like that.”_

Sherlock growled, taking a calming breath as he reminded himself not to let any of his anger seep into his voice “John, it’s okay. We’ll fix it, I promise.”

John coughed again. Sherlock frowned. “Do you have a cold?”

_“N-no. I’ve b-been like this for ‘bout two w-weeks. S’chilly in the basement, doesn’t get heat.”_

Sherlock took a deep breath, willing his anger down. “John, you need to hang up now, it’s been fifteen minutes. But…” Sherlock’s voice lowered, urgent. “I promise you, John, I will come for you. Just hold on until I do. Just hold on.”

 _“Sh-Sherlock, I-”_ John’s voice cut off with a yelp and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open wide. “John??”

 _“You little bitch! How dare you talk to him without my permission_!” Another slap echoed over the line, John’s groans following. _“You’re such a worthless piece of shit!”_

“John!” Sherlock shouted. “John, fight back!”

However, his voice wasn’t heard. Instead, Paul was punching John over and over in the gut, the dull thuds and John’s sobs making Sherlock’s heart ache. Suddenly, there was silence.

_“Johnny?”_

Still silence.

_“Johnny, I’m sorry, I think I got a little carried away…”_

Sherlock froze, terrified.

_“Johnny, please, wake up, I didn’t mean it, I love you…”_

The line went dead.

……

“What in the hell just happened?”

Sherlock stared down at his phone, eyes wide with shock and brimming with tears, mouth hanging open. “I...I can’t…”

Greg leapt up and pulled his own phone out of his pocket, speed dialing one. After a single ring, the line picked up. “I am aware of what is happening. I will be at 221B in three minutes with a car to take you and Sherlock to Allerson’s flat. Time is of the essence, and discretion is imperative.” There was another click, and Mycroft’s voice was gone.

Greg grabbed his and Sherlock’s coats off of the hook. “Sherlock, Mycroft’s coming.”

However, there was no movement. Looking back, he saw Sherlock sitting in his chair, still staring in shock at his phone, silent tears winding in paths down his face, breathing far too hard. The detective shook his head and shoved the device into his pocket, discreetly wiping his cheeks with the backs of his shaking hands

“Hey.” Greg stepped back into the room and over to Sherlock, squatting in front of him. He knew a panic attack when he saw one. “This is awful. God knows I’d be a mess if it was Mickey. But, now isn’t the time to fall apart. John needs you, Sherlock, now more than ever.” He looked up at the detective’s eyes, full of a deep sadness and, underneath that, intense fear. “Let’s go find your doctor.”

Sherlock took a few deep breaths, calming himself, then stood abruptly, eyes shuttered. “Indeed.” He clenched his fists, jaw twitching. Stepping over to the desk, he opened the drawer on John’s old side and pulled out his gun.

Greg frowned. “John left his gun here?”

“John left the majority of his things here, actually. He asked me to dispose of them, as he ‘wouldn’t need anything aside from what Paul has’.” Sherlock loaded the gun efficiently and pushed it into the waistband of his trousers, eyes flashing. He strode out of the door, taking his coat from Greg’s arms. “Let’s go.”

Greg hesitated, biting his lip. “Sherlock…”

“I’m not going to kill him, Greg, honestly. I may be…emotionally compromised, but I’m still not stupid enough to shoot a man in front of a police officer.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking the stairs briskly. He opened the front door and called back, “Are you coming?”

Greg struggled with himself for a moment, then cursed and followed him down. “Yes. God help me.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Johnny? Baby, are you awake?”

John slowly opened his eyes, wincing at the pounding in his skull. “Wh-where’m’I…”

“You’re at home, sweetheart, and I’m here.” The figure hovering worriedly above John was fuzzy, his vision blurred. “I’m so sorry, dearest. Oh, baby.”

The last two months had not been kind to John. The army doctor was paper-thin, skin pale and face sallow. Near-constant bruises marked his figure, covering over older scars and disfigurations. His legs were skinny from their unused state. However, what was worst was John’s mental state. Paul had, through rigorous use of the IOX-23 drug and repetition, convinced John of his worthlessness, and John had suffered through assault after assault believing that this was what he deserved.

Lying prostrate in Paul’s bed, John frowned as the figure came into view. “P-Paul?” He shook his head, feeling as though his skull was filled with cotton, clearing his hoarse throat. “How long was I out for this time?”

“About three minutes, you’ll be fine.” Paul said impatiently, peering down at the doctor. “Do you remember anything?”

John strained to think, but he couldn’t make sense of the jumble of events inside his head. “S-sort of. I…I was talking to Sherlock…wasn’t I?”

Paul sighed. “Yes, but…oh, dear, I don’t know if I should tell you. It might upset you.”

John struggled, trying to sit up. “N-no, it’s okay. P-please, Paul, I-” he broke off, coughing violently into his elbow. His arm came away spotted with bright red. “I w-want to know. Please.”

“You were talking to Sherlock, and he…oh, love, he broke off your friendship. You must remember that much, right?” Paul said, sympathy dripping from his voice.

John froze, heart pounding. “Wh-what?”

“He was so rude to you, baby,” Paul said sadly, “saying how he couldn’t stand being your friend. He said how selfish you were, and how your friendship just wasn’t worth it any more.”

John felt his eyes welling up with tears. “I d-don’t…how? He…I thought he said…”

“I know, baby, I know!” Paul pulled John close, squishing him tight as John winced and gasped for air as his ribcage was crushed. “Your brain tried to replace the awful truth with a sweeter lie, but it’s okay. I’m always here to tell you the truth.”

John leaned against Paul’s shoulder, shaking, tears cascading down his cheeks. “I can’t believe it. Sherlock…he promised. He…he loves me.”

Paul pulled back instantly, eyes suddenly cold. “What?”

John sniffled, wiping at the tears falling unbidden down his cheeks. “H-he…in my mind. I guess I replaced what he said with him s-saying he…loved me.” A miserable smile lit up John’s face. “I wasn’t sure anyone loved me anymore. H-haven’t heard it in so long…”

John saw the slap coming before it connected with his face, jarring his already deeply bruised cheek. Paul snarled at him and grabbed him around the neck, cutting off his already labored breathing, then seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped. John coughed violently, spattering his skin with blood.

“Do you love him back?”

John looked up, confused. “Wh-what?”

Paul took a calming breath and smiled genuinely. “Do you? Do you love Sherlock?”

John looked down, playing with the corner of the knitted blanket lying across his useless legs. “I…yes. I did. I…I do, Paul.”

Paul’s face twisted into an ugly grimace and he stood abruptly, anger flashing in his eyes. He smiled coldly. “Well, thankfully, I have a remedy for that.”

John frowned, shivering with fear at whatever was coming next. “Wh-what?”

Paul suddenly grabbed John and pulled him bodily onto the floor. John hit the floor with a thump, groaning and spitting blood onto the wood below him. ‘P-Paul, I think I might be bleeding internally…y-you need to be careful, I could d-die!”

“I DON’T CARE!” Paul screamed, slapping him hard across the face. John felt his entire body shaking against the floor. Paul had only lost control like this once before, and it had ended in the barely healed knife wound on John’s abdomen.

John listened as Paul shuffled around the room, muttering to himself and collecting various items. The doctor took a deep breath and slid his hand under the bed, reaching for the knife he had stowed away under the stack of extra sheets. Hiding it under his chest, he tensed as Paul neared.

“We’re gonna go somewhere that Sherlock will never find you.” Paul spit the detective’s name like a curse. “It’ll be just you and me forever, Johnny, just us. You’d love that, right? You love me?”

John stayed silent, entire body shaking with the effort of staying conscious.

Paul growled angrily, voice becoming desperate. ‘Tell me you love me! Say it. Now. NOW!”

Paul grabbed John by the back of the neck, pressing on his throat with calloused fingers. John hacked blood onto the floor and, using all of his strength, flipped himself over and slashed the knife upward.

Paul leapt backward with a scream, blood dripping from a shallow cut on the side of his face. John scrambled backwards, pulling his useless legs with him, eyes wide with fear.

“You. You!” Paul screamed, eyes clouded with anger. “I gave you everything! You were chosen! I could have had anyone for my lover, and I chose you! Worthless John Watson, pitiful John Watson, a chubby army doctor in love with a man who fucking hates him!”

John shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “It d-doesn’t matter. I’ll n-never stop loving Sherlock, no matter how many t-times you hit me, and no matter how much he h-h-hates me!”

Paul screamed in frustration and swarmed down upon John, punching him over and over until John’s head lolled onto his shoulders, barely conscious. He tied the doctor’s hands behind his back and lifted him, carrying him down the stairs. Blood trailed behind them, dripping from Paul’s shallow cut and John’s bleeding mouth.

“You’ll change your mind. They all do. They all do.” Paul said shakily, shoving John’s limp body into the backseat of his car. John’s head fell backwards onto the seat, eyes rolling around in his head as he ducked in and out of consciousness. Paul slid into the front and turned on the automobile, entire body shaking with anger and tears leaking from his glazed eyes as he began to drive away from the flat.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock’s knee jittered, fingers drumming against his seat as the car pulled up to a run-down flat. The house was in a disreputable area of the city, a low-rent district that Sherlock knew very well from his old drug days.

“John’s been living here? For eight months?” Greg said, shock and disgust on his face. “Dear god.”

Sherlock’s hand gripped the edge of his seat, echoing Greg’s sentiments silently. “Mycroft, do you have backup?”

“Of course, brother mine,” Mycroft said quietly from where he sat on the other side of Greg. “They are waiting at your command should you need them.”

Greg smiled and squeezed Mycroft’s knee. “You’re a thoughtful guy. I think I might be in love with you.”

“The sentiment is returned, of course.” Mycroft said smoothly, leaning in and giving Greg’s lips a chaste kiss.

“Honestly,” Sherlock said, voice dripping with disdain, “behave yourselves. Your public displays of affection are sickening.”

He opened the door and slid out, making a show of stretching and looking pointedly at the small space he had occupied, squished in next to Greg and Mycroft. Sherlock’s face then fell into grim lines as he turned to the dilapidated house in front of them.

“I told you I’d come for you, John,” he whispered softly, “and I always keep my promises.”

Greg clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, startling the detective. The inspector smiled sadly at him. “He’s going to be fine. Now let’s get in there and get him back.”

Sherlock nodded quietly. He stared at the ground for a few moments, then took a deep breath and looked up, determination in his eyes. Sherlock strode towards the house, followed closely by Greg.

However, the detective halted right outside the door, expression darkening. “Something’s not right.”

Greg stepped forward, frowning. “What-”

Sherlock held up a hand, cutting him off. The detective pushed on the door to the house with his other hand. It creaked open, unlocked.

Greg’s face twisted. “Oh, no. Sherlock-”

Sherlock ignored him and ran into the house, shouting, throwing all caution to the wind. “John? John, where are you?”

“Sherlock!” Greg followed him in, running after him as he ran frantically from room to room, wrenching open doors and looking under furniture.

“John!” Sherlock yelled, voice growing increasingly desperate. “John! Please, John…John…”

“Sherlock, stop!” Greg shouted, out of breath. The detective disappeared up the stairs and into the second floor, then went quiet. Greg took the stairs two at a time, panic filling him.

He burst through the door to find Sherlock kneeling on the floor, back facing the door. Greg approached him carefully, peering over his hunched shoulders to see what he was holding in his hands. “Sherlock?”

“He has to be here.” Sherlock croaked, voice hoarse. His shaking hands were wrapped around John’s favorite oatmeal-coloured jumper, now covered in grime and bloodstains. He grasped the fabric against his chest, hiding his face as silent sobs wracked his thin frame.

“Sherlock…God, I’m so sorry.” Greg said, kneeling next to him and placing a steady hand on his heaving back. “I’m so, so sorry. But John isn’t here. He was at some point, but he’s…he’s gone now.”

“I promised.” Sherlock whispered, hands clenched around the dirty jumper. “I swore I would come for him. I…I failed him.”

“No, absolutely not.” Greg crouched beside the detective, laying a steady hand on his shaking shoulder. “Yeah, John isn’t here, and we don’t have a bloody clue where he might be. But you’re Sherlock goddamn Holmes!” Greg squeezed his shoulder. “Now, you can sit here and mope and be of no use to John, or you can come with me and search this bloody flat top to bottom until we know where he’s gone.”

Sherlock stared at the jumper in his hands, breathing deeply. After several seconds, he sucked in a breath and nodded, standing.

“Right, then.” Greg said, injecting his voice with confidence. “Now where should we-”

“Basement.” Sherlock swept past him, gliding down the stairs with his every-present grace as if the past few minutes had never happened. “That’s where John said Allerson kept him while he was at work.”

“Blimey!” Greg said, horrified. “The bloke kept him in a bloody basement, and John still stayed with him?”

The detective opened a door at the right of the stairwell landing, peering into the darkness beyond it. “Allerson is a criminal mastermind, nearly as dangerous as Moriarty. If he didn’t want John to leave, John couldn’t have left.” He descended into the inky blackness, rickety stairs creaking each time he moved. At the bottom, he felt along the wall until he found and flipped the light switch, flooding the basement with dim fluorescence.

The basement was small and cramped, each wall no more than ten or eleven feet. It was made entirely of cement and freezing cold. Greg shivered, staring around the tiny space. Sherlock stepped across the room, looking intensely at the far corner.

“He’s been starving John.” Sherlock’s voice was shaking with anger as he picked up a rotten apple core that had been eaten right down to the seeds and stem.

“Jesus.” Greg knelt down, staring in horror at the wall, which was splattered with dried blood. “What did he do to John down here?”

“He didn’t do it here.” Sherlock said, voice cold. “He beat John upstairs, then banished him here to avoid confronting what he’d done. Then, he could observe John with the cameras that he had all over the flat, while not having to actually deal with him.”

Greg’s eyes went wide. “Cameras. Sherlock, the cameras!”

Sherlock looked at Greg, eyebrows furrowed, then gasped. “Cameras!” He stood, cursing. “Why didn’t I think of that earlier?” Sherlock walked towards the stairs, mumbling and rubbing his forehead.

“Sherlock…” Greg said hesitantly.

“I should have thought of that. This is what I do for a living, for God’s sake!” Sherlock said angrily. “How am I going to find John if I can’t even think of simple, stupid details like the bloody cameras?”

“Sherlock!” Greg raised his voice sharply. Sherlock’s eyes whipped to Greg’s face, unguarded for once and full of a mix of complex emotions.

“You’re human. You don’t have to like it, but you’re human.” Greg walked over to the detective, trying to control his own anger. “I’d like to fucking kill Allerson, right now. I’m not sure I could stop you from putting a bullet in his temple if he was here. We’re both angry, and you’re scared. I don’t blame you.”

“This keeps happening, Greg.” Sherlock whispered. “John is gone, and I’m losing my touch, and you have to bring me back to the surface like a child!” His voice rose to a harsh bark at the end.

“Sherlock, it’s natural. Jesus.” Greg said, concerned. “John is being hurt, and every trail we follow is a dead end. You’re not losing your touch. You’re worried about him because you love him.”

Sherlock stayed still for a few moments, staring at the wall. He then raised his hand and laughed hollowly. “I’m shaking, Lestrade. When was the last time you saw me shake while working?”

“John is going to be okay.” Greg said firmly, grabbing Sherlock’s hands and hoping he wouldn’t scare the detective off. “Sherlock, I ask you to help me on cases because you’re the best. Nothing scares you. But this does, and I’m not surprised. Jesus, I’m scared for John.” He looked into the detective’s eyes, steadying his shaking hands. “It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be human.”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from Greg, looking at the floor. “Not for me. This is transport, and this is emotion. I am better than this.”

“You’re human, and somewhere inside, you know that this is okay.” Greg said urgently. “Everyone gets scared, Sherlock. Your brother gets scared, and he’s the bravest man I know.”

Sherlock snorted shakily. “Nothing scares Mycroft. He’s a statue.”

“No, he’s not.” Greg said quietly. “Mycroft’s seen some terrible things. He gets nightmares. Wouldn’t let me help him, at first.” Greg trailed off for a moment, lost in memory, then spoke up again, voice stronger. “But, Mycroft’s getting it. It’s alright to be scared. And you will too, Sherlock, I promise.” He stared intensely into Sherlock’s eyes, projecting as much confidence as he could muster. “We will find John, I promise you that. We will find him.”

Sherlock let out a long breath, staring up at the ceiling. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes suspiciously red. After a few moments, he appeared to have calmed down. He looked at Greg intensely. “You’re right, of course. I apologize. I’m not used to dealing with…sentiment.”

“It’s alright.” Greg said gently. “You forget, I’m seeing your brother. I’m used to it.”

Sherlock turned, looking around the basement, lip curling. “Yes, well, the less I know of my brother’s sexual life, the better.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t planning on telling you any lurid details, so you don’t need to worry. Let’s go check out those cameras.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes dark. He swept up the stairs, and Greg followed, dreading what they were going to find.


	10. Chapter 10

Greg pulled the Scotland Yard-issue flash drive out of the computer, depositing it in his pocket with a gentle clink as it bumped his keys. He turned to Sherlock. “All the information is encrypted, but Mycroft’s the best with that sort of thing. He’ll have it done in moments.”

“I am aware of my brother’s supposed computer hacking prowess.” Sherlock said, inspecting a doorway that led to a narrow set of stairs. He gestured to the frame and the two bottommost stairs. “Fingernail marks. Deep.”

“John’s, or some other poor sod he dragged in here?” Greg said, peering at the marks.

“John’s,” Sherlock said decisively, “he cuts his nails to a very precise length. Old army habits, I suppose.”

“So where do these go then?” Greg said curiously, gesturing to the stairs.

“The bedroom.” Sherlock said brusquely, ascending the stairs two at a time.

Greg took a deep breath and followed. He stared at the walls as he climbed. They were also covered in fingernail scrapes; John had obviously fought with a tremendous amount of dedication to get away from Allerson. Greg suddenly bumped into something soft and looked forward again, realizing Sherlock had stopped at the top of the landing.

“Sherlock?” he prodded, grabbing his arm. “What’s wrong?”

The detective still did not move. Greg stepped around him, frowning, and froze at what he saw.

“Oh, Jesus.”

He stepped forward, not believing what he saw in front of him. The floor was splattered with blood, a knife thrown carelessly next to the bed. On the wall above the bed was a corkboard which held an impressive assortment of whips, chains, and handcuffs, obviously meant to be used in a sexual manner. There was a pair of handcuffs chained to the bedpost, encrusted with dried blood.

Sherlock’s footsteps echoed in the chilly room as he walked over to the bin, peering down at the contents. “Condoms, but I would be willing to bet that none of them were worn by Allerson. He would have ejaculated inside John, to satisfy his sick need to ‘own’ him.”

“Who wore them, then?” Greg said, voice horrified.

“Allerson’s…guests.” Sherlock said vaguely, opening the wardrobe.

“Guests?” Greg said, confused. Suddenly, he realized exactly what Sherlock meant and felt his stomach roll. “Oh, my god. He let…others, use John?”

Sherlock gave a terse nod, pulling two button-up shirts, a jumper, and a pair of trousers out of the wardrobe that Greg recognized to be John’s. “Allerson was protective of John. When we met at the hospital, he disliked my being in the same room as him. However…” Sherlock trailed off as he opened the dresser and found one undershirt, but no socks or pants. He closed his eyes for a moment, then continued, piling the undershirt on top of the other clothing. “He was also a shrewd businessman. He knew how to get what he wanted using other people, a skill left over from his slave trade days. And John? A handsome, blond Caucasian man? The demand must have been high.”

“God.” Greg said, feeling as though all the wind had been knocked out of him.

“This is why it’s all the more imperative that we locate him quickly.” Sherlock said sharply, opening the lowest dresser drawer and rooting around under the various extra linens. “In Allerson’s hands, John is an important bargaining tool, both for other buyers and for us-”

“Sherlock?” Greg said, frowning at Sherlock’s abrupt ending. The detective sat back on his heels, staring at a small, battered Moleskine notebook in his hands. “What’s that?”

Sherlock opened it with shaking hands. Inside the front cover, in neat script, was printed the words “John Hamish Watson”. “I…it’s John’s journal. I’ve seen it. Before, in the flat.”

Greg crouched in front of the detective as he flipped to a section near the middle of the little book. Sherlock began to read out loud, voice shaking.

_5 April_

_Harry set me up on another blind date. Joy. She doesn’t seem to get that I don’t want just any random person. But I guess it’s the best chance I’ve got, seeing as he doesn’t like me like that._

_“Married to my work”, my arse. Bloody prick._

_(He forgot to get milk again, too. Sherlock Holmes will be the death of me.)_

Sherlock turned to a month later, hands shaking. Greg pretended not to see the way his eyes were rimmed with red.

_12 May_

_Paul asked me to move in with him today. I don’t really want to, but he had a good point. Living together will consolidate our expenses, and I won’t have to pay as much as I do for sharing Baker Street with Sherlock. Also, the lack of eyeballs in my morning tea will be a nice change._

_I told Sherlock this afternoon and he seemed to take it pretty well. I don’t even think he’ll notice I’m gone. I don’t know why I ever thought he might be interested in me; he’s only ever had time for his work. Well, and for Irene. But she’s an attractive woman, and I’m a pudgy old army doctor._

_This is for the best, really._

“Sherlock…” Greg said, voice full of sympathy for the heartache he knew Sherlock was experiencing. “I’m going to take the flash drive out to Mycroft, aye? I’ll be outside when you need me.”

He squeezed the detective’s shoulder and exited, but Sherlock did not reply. He continued to flip through the book as Greg exited.

**_5 June_ **

_Paul hit me today._

_I should have seen it coming._

**_6 June_ **

_It’s fine. I’m a man, he’s a man, it’s just men taking out their frustrations. He promised it wouldn’t happen again. Besides, I’ve punched Sherlock before, right? It’s the same thing._

**_7 July_ **

_I wish Paul wouldn’t drug me. I can’t think for hours afterward._

**_21 July_ **

_Writing is hard when you can’t see properly. One of my eyes is swelled shut and the other is all bloodshot._

**_28 August_ **

_Paul cut me with a knife today because I wouldn’t have sex with him. It’s too deep. I’m really light-headed. I think I’m losing too much blood._

**_30 August_ **

_I miss Sherlock. He’d take me to the hospital if he were here._

_I think I’ve got a fever._

**_3 September_ **

_I wonder if Sherlock misses me. Probably not._

_Paul took me out to Tesco’s this morning. He shoved a dildo up my arse first. He let me finish when we got back, though. He was pleased that I didn’t embarrass him in public._

_I love Paul._

**_14 September_ **

_I saw Sherlock._

_I was in the hospital, and he came to visit me. I forgot he was my emergency contact. Funny, the things you forget when you’re constantly blown on drugs._

_He was so nice to me. Nobody’s been nice to me in a long time._

_I wish I’d told him I love him. But Paul came in and told him to leave._

**_17 September_ **

_When we were in the hospital, Paul threw away my antibiotics._

_I had to sleep in the basement last night. It was so cold. I have an infection now._

_Paul brought a doctor to help me. His name is Arnold Keller. He restitched my wound and gave me medication._

_I had sex with him for payment._

**_23 September_ **

_I can’t stop thinking about Sherlock. And food. God, I’m so hungry all the time. But, Paul says it will be worth it. I’m already losing weight. I’ll be healthier this way, without all the excess fat._

**_27 September_ **

_I’m worthless. Why would I ever have thought that Sherlock might love me?_

_The basement is too cold. I can’t feel my fingers sometimes._

**_5 October_ **

_Paul injected something new into me today. I can’t move my legs._

_I’m so scared. I’ve never been this scared in my life, not even in the army. I can’t get away. He can do whatever he wants to me, and I can’t stop it._

_He’s already brought three different men around. One of them was a sadist. My cock still hurts._

**_14 October_ **

_Last night, Paul doubled teamed me with another man. This morning, I threw up blood._

_He made me weigh myself after that. I’m down to 125 pounds. He told me he was proud of me and it felt good. Even if things aren’t great, at least Paul loves me._

**_23 October_ **

_I think I’m dying. Or I’m already dead. I’m not really sure. I hope I’m not dead. This would be a hell of an afterlife._

**_29 October_ **

_I’m going to try and contact Sherlock. I’ve had my phone hidden, and I think sometime in the next two weeks I’ll have a chance. I have to tell him what’s happening._

_Because if I can’t, I’m going to kill myself._

**_7 November_ **

_Paul is gone and I figured out how to rewire the cameras for fifteen minutes of privacy. If I know Sherlock, he’ll call me._

_I have to tell him. I have to tell him I love him._

_This is my last chance._

……….

“Here.”

Mycroft frowned, staring at the thin flash drive that Greg had dropped onto the seat next to him. “Camera footage, yes?”

Greg gave a terse nod, sliding into the back of the sleek black car. “S’encrypted. Need you to hack it, see if it’ll get us anywhere.”

“Where is he?” Mycroft said softly. 

Greg stared out the window at the darkening sky, fists clenched. “Still in the bedroom.”

Mycroft sucked in a quiet breath. He reached across the seat and took Greg’s hand, stretching out his fist to interlace Greg’s calloused fingers with his own long, slender ones.

Greg squeezed, hand shaking ever so slightly. He took a shallow breath and spoke, voice hoarse and filled with dull acceptance. “John’s dead.”

Silence followed his statement. When Mycroft replied several seconds later, his voice revealed nothing. “What led you to this deduction?”

“You should have seen that bloody flat, Mycroft.” Greg said shakily, voice raw. “S’full of horrid things. If John is alive, I dunno how he survived it. Tried to get Sherlock out, but he yelled at me to leave him alone.”

“John has been through terrible things prior to this…incident.” Mycroft said smoothly. “His childhood abuse, the war, the fall, Mary’s betrayal…he will, no doubt, make it through this. John is stronger than Sherlock gives him credit for.”

“Mycroft, the bastard beat him, starved him, and raped him!” Greg said incredulously. “Those kind of things aren’t easy to ‘make it through’.”

“Nonsense.” Mycroft snorted. “John was in the army. With increased frequency in his meetings with Ella, he will be fine in a matter of months.”

“You have no idea what it’s like, do you?” Greg said harshly, turning to face the government man. “People who go through this shit, they don’t prescribe to some prewritten formula. It can take years to come to terms with it. Might not ever happen, even.”

“As ever, you have little to no faith in humanity, Gregory,” Mycroft said, voice growing increasingly heated with each word. “John will be fine.”

“You’ve got no right to judge how he’s supposed to heal from what he’s suffered,” Greg snarled, eyes alight with anger.

“Nor do you!” Mycroft burst out, anger coloring his normally calm demeanor. “Only a weak man would let such events permanently affect his person!”

Greg went still, jaw working furiously. When he spoke, his voice was controlled, hushed to nearly a whisper. “I didn’t know you thought of me as a weak man.”

All the anger disappeared from Mycroft’s face, replaced by shock and concern. “When?”

Greg shook his head, a disappointed smile on his face. “It doesn’t matter. Not now that I know what you’d think of me if you knew.” He grabbed the flash drive and opened the car door, avoiding eye contact, voice harsh. “I’ll take this back to the station and work on it there, though it’s doubtful I’ll ever be able to hack drives like the iceman can.”

Mycroft reached for the inspector, eyes wide and unusually unguarded. “Gregory, I-”

“Good day, Mr. Holmes.” Greg said, voice painfully formal. He gave Mycroft one last glance, eyes cold, then stood and walked away down the drive.

……..

It was raining.

John’s eyelashes fluttered, his head feeling as though it was full of cotton. The inky darkness inside his closed eyes felt at once both safe and terrifying. Fighting to stay conscious, John forced his eyes open, vision slowly coming into focus.

Darkness greeted him there, as well.

As his eyes adjusted, John realized he could see the stars, shining coldly above him in a moonless sky. His clothes were soaked with rainwater, dripping in rivulets off of his pale, chilled skin. His mouth tasted metallic, lips slippery with blood.

Memories came rushing back. Paul’s hands, shaking more and more as London disappeared behind them. Paul’s voice, growing increasingly desperate as the hours of driving wore on. A divide in the road, followed by too sharp of a turn. The sound of crushing metal, shattering glass, and a single hoarse scream, before heavy silence and then nothing at all.

Slowly, the army doctor struggled upwards, raising himself on scraped elbows. He was surrounded by grass, damp with rain and a darker liquid. Near the edge of the road, there was a still-smoking lump of metal, hissing as the cool rain caressed its surface. John twisted his sore neck to the right to see Paul’s body lying a few feet away, eyes open in an unseeing stare, twisted metal lodged through the shredded skin of his abdomen.

John swallowed his scream, heart pounding. Paul was dead. 

Lights flickered in the distant dark, the faint call of sirens meeting his ears. He abruptly realized someone was speaking to him.

“…can you hear me? Sir, can you hear me? I’ve called the police, they’re on their way, just hold on…”

A woman was crouched beside him, a small crowd of people lingering further back. Her lips moved, but John could hear no sound. He felt himself fall backwards to the ground, as if in slow motion. He stared up at the dark sky, and one by one, the stars faded away as he lost his grip on consciousness once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep your eyes open for the sequel, Fissures, and enjoy the heartbreak of season 4.


End file.
